


It's All A Lie

by KilltheDJ



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: That’s how Fun Ghoul becomes part of what’s, then, a three-person Banger Cell of the Venom Brothers, and, well, Fun Ghoul.Kobra never does finish his rant.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul & Kobra Kid (Danger Days)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	It's All A Lie

**Author's Note:**

> So this isn't all too put together-plot wise and is more of I like PROSE and want to get it all down before it gets lost in my notes!

The Kobra Kid is a drug.

He’s wide-eyes and blown pupils, fucked-up hair and dorky laughs, a crooked grin and split knuckles, doomed to pull you in and doomed to give you a home.

He’s a drug in the best way. Everything about him is  _ alluring,  _ in the same way everything about his brother is  _ color.  _

You don’t know what to expect next, but you know you’ll always go back. Everyone always goes back. As a lover, a partner, a friend, an enemy. You always go back. 

He’s a bad habit to fall into, in the same way you can find him chain smoking a pack of cigarettes with a faded logo on the Diner roof when the nights get too cold and Poison’s bite is as sharp as his eyes.

The first one to meet the Kobra Kid, a bad habit and a drug, is Fun Ghoul.

Fun Ghoul. He’s mayhem and mischief and a grin too sharp and anything with a  _ spark.  _ He’s got a wolf in his eyes and he’s seen too much of the world, too little of its luxuries and spent too much time chasing  _ bulletproof. _

When he meets the Kobra Kid, he’s in the back of WKIL radio trying to fashion a bomb out of a broken vinyl, toothpaste, and spit. The Kobra Kid is there to deliver news from the Crash Track, straight from the source and straight from Agent Cherri Cola. 

The only reason they speak to each other is because Ghoul’s in Kobra’s way, and Kobra’s not in a very good mood.

Back then, he was still a scared teenager running for life, hoping the sand he kicked up with his motorbike blurred the past and brightened the future. Seventeen and headstrong, with baby fat just starting to leave from malnutrition and red pimples on his forehead, Kobra was a moody,  _ moody  _ force to be reckoned with.

“Get out of my way.” Blank, blunt, to the point. The one thing the Kobra Kid was known for beyond his jawline, at the least. 

Either way, Ghoul didn’t care about his mood swings then and doesn’t now, and glared at him, wiping toothpaste on one of the more obvious pimples and grunting. “You got some nice fuckin’ manners, don’t’cha?”

“We’re in hell, and the Devil doesn’t demand manners the last I checked,” Kobra’s response was snide and snarky, just enough exhaustion to get Ghoul to move out of the way with no further bantering.

He’s been in the Zones enough to know when someone’s about to drop from the weight of their own satellites, too consumed in the stars to see the self-destruction.

It’s one of the only tones and attitudes Ghoul can detect with just a look. That, and whether someone stole his wallet or not. 

The news from Cherri isn’t interesting, at least not interesting enough to ride three Zones in with no one else ‘round to see if you fall. It’s something about the races and something about No Man’s Land.

It’s an odd version of foreshadowing.

When Kobra shoves past Ghoul to leave, no  _ excuse me  _ on his lips or any manners of the sort, Ghoul stops him with an arm on his shoulder.

He’s greeted with a switchblade at his throat before he can blink, just enough pressure to draw out a singular droplet of blood. “Don’t  _ touch me!” _

It’s nothing short of a hiss, and Ghoul knows his boundaries.

So, he doesn’t let go. WKIL is a place of neutrality between killjoys, and no blood that didn’t run white was to be spilled within its boundaries.

“Take a nap,” is all Ghoul tells him, all Ghoul  _ can  _ tell him, because he doesn’t know it’s the Kobra Kid and he doesn’t know everything the  _ child  _ has been through.

With that, he let go, and Kobra’s gone in a flash, a shock of blond hair and  _ anger  _ shifting and churning into something  _ more. _

_

The Kobra’s Kid’s anger is explosive in the same way a smoke bomb was.

It’s a shock, and it’s  _ scary _ .

The second time Fun Ghoul, mischief and havoc contained in the same precarious way as a match containing it’s flame, meets the Kobra Kid, it’s at the Crash Track.

It’s a smatter of applause from the audience as the first racers cross the finish line, and a familiar battered red jacket at the bar.

When Ghoul gets over there, waving Cherri down to order nothing more than a Capri Sun, Kobra’s not drinking. 

He’s staring at his hands, most likely zoned out, but it’s hard not to notice the bloody knuckles and bruised wrists. Ghoul wonders what kind of stuff a kid like Kobra got involved in, but he knew it was better left unsaid. 

There are always so many things in the Zones meant to take kids and spit out soldiers.

Ghoul has a funny feeling Kobra already knows what that feels like.

Regardless, Ghoul isn’t one to make small talk, always talks too much and too loud with razor-sharp remarks and bad ideas.

Kobra is, though. He never is one to brood - he rants, and he  _ hits things _ . 

“Do you know why the Zones are the way they are?” It starts off quiet, starts off  _ calm  _ in a way the eye of a hurricane was, devastation in front of it and desolation in its wake. 

Ghoul doesn’t answer.

“It’s all a  _ lie,  _ you know that?” There’s the clenched jaw, the tinge of purple to his eyes that tells Ghoul that Kobra’s had a little too much to drink and a little too much time to simmer in his anger. “It’s a damned lie!”

“How would you know?” Ghoul’s always been rude, and now Kobra’s ranting was no exception. Kobra had been right when they first met - hell doesn’t have time for manners.

Ghoul’s been in the Zones his entire life, and manners cause  _ trouble  _ as far as he’s seen.

Kobra eyes him out in his peripheral vision, sizing Ghoul up and maybe placing where they’ve seen each other, before exhaling a breath that blows greasy blond hair out of his own face. “Because some of us saw the City for what it is too.”

Battery City was all but a mystery to a Snow Storm - but either way, Ghoul didn’t like the Halo Head type attitude Kobra’s exuding. “Yeah? Pray fuckin’ tell, ya meltin’ mask.”

Whether Kobra knew if he’s being insulted or not is another mystery to Ghoul. “I know because I  _ was  _ part of what made the city run. And it’s all a lie!”

“You’re, like, a toddler,” Ghoul snorts, flicking Kobra on the head with the same pressure you would a child. “Get over yourself. You’re ‘bout as important as the rest’a us out here.”

“No I’m  _ not!”  _ Kobra slams his fist into the banged-up counter, leaving no mark but collapsing on the bar stool like it had taken all the energy he’d had left. “I’m not like  _ any  _ of you fuckers out here because you don’t  _ get it!  _ And I’m seventeen!”

“Hi seventeen, I’m Fun Ghoul.” Ghoul manages to deliver it with a complete deadpan, but a smile starts to quirk at the corner of his mouth, the scarred side.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” says Kobra, with such  _ venom  _ that it jolts Ghoul enough to remind him that there’s a reason everyone likes to call Kobra Kid and Party Poison the  _ Venom Brothers _ .

Enough venom to start a war and enough acidity to end one. It’s all a matter of intent and execution.

Ghoul wonders, vaguely, how that’s going to play out. He’d seen types like the Venom Brothers before, spouting waterfalls of  _ promises  _ and  _ life  _ and  _ liberation  _ on whims and never living up to expectation.

They all died too early to really accomplish anything.

And, staring at Kobra, even when he was seething, Ghoul sees a bit of… He doesn’t know, but it’s like deja vu, and there’s no fuckin’ way he’s letting Kobra die a death as gory as his predecessors. 

“Well, you wanna tell me more when we get to wherever you’re staying?”

It isn’t the smoothest in execution, but that isn’t what Ghoul’s going for. It’s not a question. He’s staying with Kobra, end of story. And because of living in the Desert for so long, a nomad and a Dust Angel at heart, Ghoul always knows to pack light.

He’s just got a backpack full of bomb supplies and baggage.

“When we’re - what?”

Ghoul sighs. “No, no, continue ramblin’ as we walk, jus’ tell me when to turn, ‘kay?”

“Why would I… What?” Less burning passionate anger, more sputtering confusion and a sparking gaze. It would be more intimidating if Ghoul hadn’t seen ghosts with more of a threat in their eyes. 

“C’mon now, follow me, continue rantin’. Why is it all a lie? What do you know?”

That’s how Fun Ghoul becomes part of what’s, then, a three-person Banger Cell of the Venom Brothers, and, well, Fun Ghoul. 

Kobra never does finish his rant. 

**Author's Note:**

> What'cha think?


End file.
